


And Still Feeling Amazed

by fitofpique



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-11
Updated: 2008-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitofpique/pseuds/fitofpique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men, one hotel room, no past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Still Feeling Amazed

**Author's Note:**

> This is an oh so belated birthday fic for Secrethappiness! Thanks to Cindyjade for the beta. The title is from _My Oldest Memory_ , by the Bowerbirds.

He wakes with a start. 

He tries to sit up, but the bed has him in a strangle-hold. His heart beats a panicked, syncopated rhythm against his ribs as he flails at the sheet noosed around his neck. When he finally frees himself, he's out of breath and shaking. Being upright brings him a sudden and painful awareness of his head, which feels kind of like a balloon filled with wet cement. He lowers himself gingerly to his pillow, squinting at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table. Nine in the morning. 

What did he do last night? He thinks back and pain knifes through his head, sharp and sickening. Well, shit. That kind of answers that question. Sleep it off. He grabs the pillow beside him and covers his face with it, hoping the lack of oxygen will help him pass out again. 

"Hey!" 

The muffled protest from the other side of the bed surprises the shit out of him, makes him forget that clutching the sheet and leaping to his feet is a really fucking bad idea. He can't stand puking, so he squeezes his eyes closed and tries to both stay upright and will away the rush of nausea, breathing slowly in and out through his nose for a twenty count until the feeling has mostly passed. 

When he opens his eyes, he can't help but notice that there is a dude in his bed. A skinny dude with wide, shocked eyes, insane bedhead, a girly tattoo, and briefs such an obnoxious shade of yellow that it hurts to look at them. 

"Who the fuck are you?" Underpants says, propping himself up on his elbows. He sounds surprisingly chill for someone who just woke up with a complete stranger. 

"Who the fuck are _you_!" he replies, wrapping the sheet securely around his waist, which draws his attention to the fact that he is balls-out naked. What the hell did he _do_ last night? "And what are you doing in my room?" 

Underpants raises his eyebrows. "Your room?" 

It's a good question. He looks around. They're obviously in a hotel room, so he tries to remember checking in, but the result is pain like a hot poker through the eye. He collapses on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, cradling his aching head in his hands. "It's not my room?"

"I don't actually know," Underpants says, making obvious getting-out-of-bed sounds. "Are you okay, man?" 

Is he _okay_? He would laugh if he weren't positive it would result in projectile vomiting. He kind of wants to die, but "no" is all he can manage to say. He doesn't lift his head, but he senses Underpants leaving the room, sees the light flick on and then off in his peripheral vision. The bed dips beside him. 

"Here," Underpants says, touching the back of his hand with a cool glass. "Do you want Tylenol? There was some in the bathroom." 

He accepts the glass and takes a tentative sip. It might be the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. Underpants puts three Tylenol in the cup of his palm and watches as he swallows them down with another mouthful of water. "Thank you," he manages to say, and then he has to stop talking and focus on not being sick. 

Underpants sits quietly beside him, arms crossed over his narrow chest, and watches him drink the entire glass of water, sip by tiny sip. After a while, he decides he probably won't throw up as long as he doesn't do anything too strenuous. Like move. Or think. 

He sets the glass on the carpet in between his feet and pushes his hair out of his eyes, turning to look at Underpants. "What's your name?" he asks. 

"Funny thing," Underpants says in a tight voice that makes it pretty clear he thinks it's anything but. He jumps to his feet and starts stalking back and forth beside the bed, running his hands through his hair. "I'm not ... I don't actually know. I can't remember my name. I can't remember anything. So maybe you should tell me who you are and how we ended up in bed together before I start to freak the fuck out." 

"Oh my God," he says, doubling over again, realization turning his mind inside out. 

"What?" There's a definite hysterical edge to Underpant's voice now. 

"I can't remember anything either," he says without looking up. 

"Bull _shit_!" Underpants says. 

"I'm dead serious," he insists. Another wave of nausea hits him but he ignores it, lifting his head and doing his best look as sincere and harmless as possible. Given that he can't really remember what he looks like, it's not easy. 

Underpants stops pacing long enough to look him in the face. He bites his lip, narrows his eyes, and stares intently at him for a long agonizing moment. Then his face smooths out and he nods. "Okay." 

He lifts his eyebrows. "Okay what?" 

Underpants sits beside him and pats his sheet-covered knee. "Just ... okay. I believe you." 

The air rushes from his lungs and he slumps with relief. "Thank you." 

"So. What do we do now?" Underpants asks, leaning back on his hands and crossing one lean leg over the other. His chest and belly are smooth and his skin is pale and strangely luminous in the dim room. 

He folds his hands in his lap and looks away. "I wouldn't say no to some clothes." 

"Oh!" Underpants says, and somehow tucks himself into a backwards somersault, tumbling off the opposite side of the bed and springing smoothly to his feet. Christ, is he some kind of circus performer? He darts into the bathroom and right back out, two fluffy white robes in his arms and an enormous smile on his face. 

He smiles back and accepts one of the robes. He stands on wobbly legs and shrugs it on, tying it snug around his waist. The painkillers seem to be starting to kick in and his stomach is a bit calmer. Coffee is starting to seem like a really good idea.

Underpants is turning up the sleeves on his robe, face creased in concentration. He looks about twelve years old, which is just one more thing to worry about. He's starting to think he maybe doesn't want to know what he did last night after all.

"Oh, hey. What's this?" Underpants says, opening what he had assumed was a closet door. "We have a suite!" he crows, disappearing through into the other room. 

He shrugs and follows. "Anyone else here?" 

"Hello?" Underpants shouts, as he settles onto the couch and plunks his feet on the coffee table. No one answers. "Guess not," he says. 

A pair of black dress pants are draped over the back of one of the dining room chairs. Coins jingle when he brushes against them. 

"Check the pocket," Underpants says, suddenly serious. 

His hands aren't quite steady when he sticks his hand into the pocket and pulls out a battered wallet with the Rolling Stones' logo on the front. Funny that he can remember the Rolling Stones and not his own name. He flips it open. "It's yours," he says, holding it out, "Brendon." 

Brendon grabs the wallet out of his hands and pulls out his driver's license, studying it intently. "Brendon Boyd Urie," he says, touching the photo with the tip of one finger.

"Ring any bells?" He can't help asking but immediately regrets it when Brendon looks up, expression desolate. "Not really." 

"Sorry," he says. 

Brendon goes back to staring at his photo, so he takes a look around the room. There are clothes everywhere, balled up socks and a crumpled wife beater, a dress shirt and a ... bow tie? And oh! Boxer shorts! He pulls them off the lampshade and puts them on under his robe, which should make him feel better but seriously – what the ever-loving _fuck_ did they do last night? 

He opens the door and peers out into the hall, which is deserted. There's a paper on the floor in front of the room, _The San Francisco Chronicle_. It's Thursday, July 24, 2008. 

He picks the paper up and clears his throat "Hey." 

Brendon shoves his wallet into the pocket of his robe and walks toward him. He looks lost, his eyes two bruises in his pale face. "We're in San Francisco," he says, holding up the paper. 

"What's the date?" Brendon asks, accepting the paper from him and skimming the front page. "2008, huh? That makes me ..." he counts on his fingers "... 21 years old." 

"Really?" he asks, mostly to stop himself from blurting out, _thank fucking God_. 

"Yup," Brendon says, "though my boyish good looks might lead you to believe I'm much younger." He winks and smiles again, but not as brightly as before. "We should look for your ID. I've been calling you Naked Guy in my head, but it's getting old." 

They find his pants behind the overstuffed arm chair in the corner, and he's not going to think about how they got there, he's just ... no. Bad idea. 

"Jonathan Jacob Walker," Brendon says, his voice gentle. "Jon. Well, that's a nice name." 

"Dream come true, yeah," Jon says, sitting down on the couch. He takes all the cards from his wallet and spreads them out on the coffee table. He's going to be turning 23 this year. He's an organ donor. He has four Starbucks cards and a black and white photograph of two cats. 

"Familiar?" Brendon asks, tentatively. 

"Not even a little," he admits. 

Brendon collapses on the couch beside him and nudges Jon with his knee. "What do you think we should do? Should we go to the hospital?" 

Jon shakes his head. "I don't know. Is that what you want to do?" 

Brendon sighs and shrugs, then leans over to turn on a lamp. "Oh, look," he says, and picks up a pair of glasses from the end table. 

"Are those–?" Jon starts to ask. 

"Mine, yeah," Brendon says, blinking at him from behind the lenses and raising his brows comically. "Hey, you're handsome when you're not all blurry." 

He laughs and bumps Brendon's shoulder with his. "Yeah?" 

"Yeah. You've got a good face," Brendon says, tilting his head to one side and scrutinizing him. "Especially when you smile. You should go look at yourself."

:::

Jon does have a pretty good face as it turns out, which is a relief. He particularly likes his beard. He's alternating between admiring it and freaking out when Brendon shows up in the mirror behind him. "Hi," Jon says.

"Hi there. Listen, are you hungry? Because I'm starving." He sucks in his cheeks and makes a famished goldfish face. 

Jon tilts his head from side to side experimentally, evaluating his headache. It's mostly gone, so he nods. "Yeah, I could eat breakfast. If there's coffee." 

Brendon wrinkles his nose and frowns. "Room service?" 

"Yeah, I don't want to," he looks away, panic at the thought of leaving the hotel room squeezing all the air out of his lungs, sending heat rushing to his cheeks. "I mean. I'd rather not go out," he says, breathlessly, clutching at the countertop. Fuck. _Calm down_ , he tells himself. 

"No, me neither," Brendon says quickly, like maybe he feels the same way. 

Jon turns to face him, relief and gratitude welling up like music inside him. Without thinking, he reaches out and pulls Brendon into a hug. For a beat, he thinks he's made a big mistake, but then Brendon lifts his arms and wraps them around Jon's waist and presses his face to Jon's neck. They stay like that for what feels like a long time and then Brendon exhales, hot and shaky. "We're going to be fine," he mumbles against Jon's skin. 

"Yup, totally," Jon says, running his hand up Brendon's back and squeezing the nape of his neck once before stepping back. "We'll figure it out." 

"Hey," Brendon asks, peering into the mirror and then turning to pluck something from the edge of the bathtub with a clink. "Look at these, Jon." He's holding two identical, brushed silver rings in the palm of his hand.

Jon looks. "Nice."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "What do they look like to you?" 

Jon puts on what he imagines is his most thoughtful expression, complete with head scratching. "Are they rings, Brendon?"

" _Matching_ rings," Brendon says, shooting him a significant look. 

"Uh huh," Jon says slowly. He lifts his eyebrows. "Go on."

Brendon sighs. "Wedding rings, Jon. They look like wedding rings." The _you dumbass_ is unspoken, but Jon hears it loud and clear. 

"Who's ... oh wait, you think _we're_ married?" Jon asks, but even as he says it things start to click into place in his head: formal wear, swanky hotel, nudity ... San Francisco! "That's ... wow. Okay. So we're ... and we're on our–" He can't quite bring himself to say it. "That is just really. Oh my God. Wow." 

Brendon reaches out and cautiously wraps his fingers around Jon's shoulder. "You're freaking out." 

Jon nods. His heart starts to pound savagely in his chest and he feels numb and dizzy. "I think I need to sit down." Brendon grips his shoulder more tightly and steers him into the bedroom, where he sits heavily on the edge of the bed. "Sorry," he says. 

"It's all right." Brendon sits beside him, chin resting on his fist, one leg folded underneath him. 

Jon's mind is like a record skipping – _married, married, married, gay married_. "Wow," he says again. 

"I know," Brendon says. "We're kind of young, right?" There's a worried crease between his eyebrows and his mouth is pinched. He looks apologetic, apprehensive even, like he's not quite sure what Jon's going to do. 

And suddenly Jon feels like a total asshole. "Yeah, we are," he says, reaching out and working his fingers through the soft mess of hair above Brendon's ear and giving him a reassuring smile, "but I'm sure we knew what we were doing." 

Brendon smiles back at him and nods. "You're right," he says. He takes a deep breath and stands, stretching his arms above his head, which makes his robe gape open and gives Jon another glimpse of yellow underwear and taut belly. He notices Jon looking and makes a mock scandalized face. "Breakfast?" he says, his eyes wide and pleading. 

"Okay," Jon says, and lets Brendon take his hands and pull him to his feet.

:::

"If you were a room service menu, where would you be?" Brendon asks, opening the bedside table drawer and pulling his ridiculously expressive face into a pout when it's empty.

Jon grabs Brendon's shoulders and turns him around. "I would be on that desk in the corner, under all the bags." He could have just told him or gestured, but he wants to touch. Whatever, they're _married_. He makes himself let go after a quick squeeze.

Brendon's face lights up. "Jon Walker, you're my hero!" he says, and leans in and kisses him fast on the lips.

After a second's shocked silence, Jon ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck, scratches his fingers through his hair. "You're kind of easy to impress," he says, but Brendon's already on the other side of the room tossing bags onto the bed and looking through the stack of hotel information underneath.

Jon looks into one of the bags. "Oh, hey," he says, pulling out a pair of matching Tag Heuer watches. "Do you think these are wedding gifts?" 

"Maybe," Brendon says, looking down into the oversized gift bag at his feet. "This one has like four pairs of jeans in it!" He pulls one out and holds it up to his waist.

"Nice," Jon says, opening a smaller bag and looking inside. "Holy fuck, this one has iPhones."

Brendon's eyes widen comically. "People must be really happy for us, Jon."

"Yeah," Jon says, pulling a stack of hoodies out of another bag. "That's good to know, isn't it?"

"Totally," Brendon says, nodding and pulling another bag out from under the desk. "Oh hey, shoes!"

:::

"... two orders of waffles, and a basket of chocolate croissants," Brendon says into the phone. He's ordered enough food to feed at least four people. "Oh! We're actually on our honeymoon, so could you send up some ... what do you call it, champagne and–" he pauses, smiles and nods. "Mimosas. Exactly. Thank you so much!"

Jon raises his eyebrows at him after he hangs up.

"What?" Brendon asks, all big eyes and soft, pouty lips, the picture of perfect innocence. "It'll make you feel better, I promise."

Jon shakes his head. "Have you forgotten all about the fact that we have amnesia? What if we've got, like, a head injury?"

Brendon looks skeptical. "A shared head injury?"

Jon shrugs helplessly. "I don't know! I just don't think we should be drinking when we have no idea what's wrong with us."

"Fine! We don't have to drink it! I just think it's sad that we can't remember our own wedding, and that so far we've spent our entire honeymoon freaking out! I thought it might help us relax, but I didn't think it through, I guess. I'm sorry."

Jon closes his eyes and mentally kicks himself. "Don't apologize. I'm the one who should be sorry. This whole thing is–" he shakes his head. "You're totally right. We should be happy and celebrating and I'm just ... I'm an idiot."

"You're not an idiot," Brendon says, leaning in close and pressing their foreheads together. "You're just trying to do the right thing."

Jon wraps his arms around Brendon's waist and pulls him into another hug. "I wonder if I'm usually this much of a killjoy," he says, voice muffled by Brendon's robe.

"Maybe you're the practical one." Brendon threads his fingers through the hair at the nape of Jon's neck and tugs, sending a thrill down his spine. "I mean, one of has to be," he laughs.

"I guess so," Jon sighs, "but it's not like one glass of champagne is going to kill us."

:::

"You're a pretty cheap date," Jon says, when he can catch his breath.

"Me?" Brendon says. "You are messed up!"

" _I'm_ messed up?" Jon says, giving Brendon the once over. He's stripped down to his underpants again and is wearing an elaborately folded napkin swan as a hat, shoving half a croissant in his mouth. "Dude, you're going to choke! What if I can't remember how to do the Heimlich manoeuvre?" Jon laughs, feeling far giddier than he should after two glasses of champagne.

Brendon chews his mouthful with exaggerated care, swallowing and then taking a long gulp of champagne before dropping his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his hands. He smiles at Jon angelically and bats his eyelashes. "You were saying?"

Without a second thought, Jon grabs him by the wrist and pulls him out of his chair and into his lap, as easy as if he's done a million times before. He probably has, he thinks.

"Jon." Brendon's voice is a little husky. He smiles, slow and lazy, eyes flicking from Jon's mouth to his eyes and back again. "Can I–?" he says, and leans in for a tentative kiss.

Jon's heart is beating wildly, a feeling somewhere in between panic and elation. His hands are useless, he can't seem to move them, but he has the presence of mind to open his mouth to the soft but urgent press of lips, letting Brendon push his tongue inside, and fuck, it's good, it's good.

Brendon breaks off the kiss, panting, and Jon opens his mouth to protest, but he just pulls back far enough to grab Jon by the lapels of his robe and throw one leg over his lap, straddling him. His eyes are wild and shocked, his lips wet and puffy. "Holy fuck, Jon Walker," he says, and leans in to kiss him again, sucking hungrily on Jon's tongue and wriggling around in his lap. "Take this off, you fucker," he says, pulling at Jon's robe, and yes, yes, best idea ever. He gets rid of Brendon's underpants while he's at it, and then pulls him back into his lap. 

And now his hands know what to do, reaching up to cradle Brendon's shoulders and then sliding down to grip his waist as his own hips rock helplessly up and up. Brendon's skin is feverishly hot and the long muscles in his back slide smoothly under Jon's hands as he works his hips, rubbing himself off against Jon's bare belly.

"Brendon," Jon groans, in between kisses, grabbing his—oh God, _perfect_ —ass and squeezing hard. "Christ, you're so ... _fuck_."

"Fuck, I want to suck you off," Brendon says, sliding off his lap and freeing him from his boxers somehow before shouldering his way between Jon's legs. "Okay?" he asks.

All Jon can manage is a jerky nod and then Brendon's hands are stroking up the inside of his thighs and his tongue is on Jon's balls and his cock is pressed sticky-hot against Jon's shin and it's weirdly sexy, amazingly sexy actually, and he's afraid he's going to come the instant Brendon sucks the head of his cock into his mouth. He moans and fights not to thrust, but his knee kicks up involuntarily, nailing Brendon in the side of the head. "Oh fuck! Sorry, sorry!" he says, palming Brendon's ear apologetically, running forgive-me fingers through his hair. 

Brendon looks up at him, dark kiss of eyes through long lashes, flushed cheeks, lips wrapped red around Jon's cock, and he can't help it – he starts to come. 

"Fuck," Jon wheezes, a noise he hopes to hell he's never made before. He cups Brendon's jaw and tries to push him away as gently as he can, but Brendon slides his hands under Jon's thighs and pulls him closer, sucks harder, moaning around him.

When everything finally shudders to a standstill, Jon's ears are ringing and he's sweating, trembling, his hands clenched too tight in Brendon's hair. He forces himself to relax his fingers, stroking gently through the dark, tangled strands and then pulling him up and into his lap. "Come here," he says, pressing his face to Brendon's neck and breathing in the sharp, clean smell of him, listening to the steady beat of his pulse. He licks Brendon's throat and wraps his fingers around his slippery cock, so hard it's flush with his belly.

"Yeah," Brendon gasps, rolling his hips, thrusting hard into Jon's hand. "Fuck, yeah," he says, and leans in for a sloppy and poorly aimed kiss.

Jon splays the fingers of his free hand against Brendon's ribs and jacks him, slow and steady, staring into his face. The noises Brendon makes drive Jon crazy, make him want to say stupid things. He leans in and bites Brendon's nipples, licks his abs, drags his lips up to his collarbone and sucks at it, keeping his mouth busy.

Brendon's eyes are squeezed tightly shut and his hand is playing restlessly up and down Jon's side, so he grabs it, laces their fingers together so Brendon has something to hold on to. " _Jon_ ," he says fervently, and moans deep in his throat, driving his cock into Jon's hand and rutting frantically against his belly.

"Yeah, Brendon, c'mon," Jon says, tightening his grip and speeding his strokes until Brendon freezes, his cock jerking in Jon's hand, and comes all over both of them.

"Mmmm," Brendon says, a blissed-out smile on his face. "That was _awesome_."

"Yeah," Jon says, pulling him in for a kiss. "Totally awesome."

:::

"You were on top last time, Brendon! My back is fucking killing me!"

"Oh, don't be such a baby. Legs up. Give me your hands. Jon, come on! Oh hey, that rhymed."

Jon rolls his eyes. "Fine!" he says, clasping Brendon's hands, locking them together with their fingers. "But this is the last time."

Brendon assumes the position, resting his belly on the soles of Jon's feet. "Okay, now lift me up!"

Jon heaves him into the air, legs shaking with the effort, back protesting. But Brendon is laughing and untangling their fingers, trying to stick his long arms and legs straight out.

"Oh shit!" Jon says, and Brendon falls sideways through the air, rolling off the mattress and onto the floor.

"I'm okay!" he shouts, jumping to his feet and bouncing in place. "Can't keep Superman down."

"Oh, God. Can we please take a nap now?" Jon begs, curling up on his side.

"All right, all right," Brendon says, "but you're spooning me." He crawls onto the bed and under Jon's arm, elbowing Jon in the stomach and getting his stupid fluffy hair in Jon's mouth.

"Sleeeeeeeeep," Jon moans, wrapping his arms around Brendon and rolling half on top of him, pinning him to the mattress.

Brendon wriggles around until they're facing each other, snuffling happily against Jon's chest. "You smell good, Jon Walker," he slurs, voice muffled and happy. 

And then it's quiet.

:::

Jon flicks idly through a dozen channels, all crap daytime shows. The sun is streaming through the window, but Brendon's still asleep on his belly next to him, his side pressed summer warm against Jon's hip. Jon trails his fingers up and down the dip of Brendon's spine, softly, careful not to wake him. He's just about to turn the television off in disgust when the talk show he stopped on cuts off and a news anchor starts to speak.

"We interrupt your regularly scheduled broadcasting to bring you further developments in today's lead story. The rash of amnesia cases being reported in San Francisco this morning is now being linked to the tanker truck that overturned near Nob Hill yesterday. Experts believe those suffering from symptoms of memory loss likely unknowingly inhaled fumes from the spill. Individuals exposed to the colorless, odorless gas may be suffering from not only memory loss but also severe headaches, nausea, and, in some extreme cases, even agoraphobia. If you have any of these symptoms, or believe you may have been exposed, go directly to the nearest emergency room or call the number on the bottom of screen. Operators are standing by to take your call. Our medical experts reassure us that the mind-altering effects of the chemical do not pose a serious, permanent health risk and that symptoms are temporary and should fade within 12 to 18 hours."

"I remember something," Brendon says, and Jon's so startled he nearly falls out of the bed.

"Fuck," he says, pressing one hand to his heart. Brendon's face is strangely expressionless but something in his eyes and the set of his mouth is utterly familiar and suddenly, like a flipped switch, Jon remembers everything. "Brendon," he says, slumping back against the headboard. His chest feels tight and he's shaking, thoughts jangling against each other in his mind.

Brendon pushes himself up into a sitting position and reaches out to take Jon's hand. He's trembling too. "I know," he says.

:::

When Ryan and Spencer show up, they're packed and dressed and waiting on the couch.

"Where the fuck have you assholes been?" Ryan asks.

Brendon shakes his head and smiles wryly. "We're fine, Ryan. Thanks for asking. How are you guys feeling?"

Ryan shoots Spencer an uncertain look. "We're all right. The hospital was a nightmare though. Which one did you guys go to?"

Jon opens his mouth to answer, but Brendon jumps in. "We decided not to go to the hospital."

Ryan looks surprised. Spencer looks completely dazed.

"We had agoraphobia," Jon explains.

"Huh. What'd you do then?" Ryan says.

Jon sneaks a look at Brendon. He's fidgeting and biting his lip, like freaking guilt personified. "We ordered room service and took some Tylenol and a nap," he says. "Then we saw the news and it all started to come back."

"Are you okay, Spencer?" Brendon asks.

Spencer just shrugs and smiles a spaced-out smile. Ryan frowns. "He's still a bit out of it, but they said he'll be fine. It just takes longer for the effects to fade for some people. Are you guys ready to go? The car's waiting."

"I'm ready," Brendon says, hoisting his bag over his shoulder.

"Me too," Jon says, but he's not. He's not ready at all.

Ryan tugs Spencer out into the hall and Brendon's about to go after them but Jon can't let him. He grabs his sleeve. "Brendon, wait."

Brendon turns to look at Jon, eyes wide and wary.

"Are you guys coming?" Ryan shouts.

"Go ahead, we'll catch up," Jon shouts back. "Brendon," he says, and then falters. He doesn't know how to say it.

Brendon's expression slips for a second and the resignation on his face is like a fist in Jon's gut.

"Look, you don't have to worry, Jon. I'm not going to s–"

Jon winces and lifts his hands. "Brendon, that's not what I was going to say. I need to tell you that ... fuck, I suck at this." Jon closes his eyes and shakes his head and tries again. "What happened today, with us, I don't want it to just ... go away."

"Really?" Brendon says, a smile spreading cautiously across his face.

"Yeah," Jon says, reaching out to grab his hand. "I mean, if you want to see if it would work. If we would work." He shrugs.

"I do," Brendon says, squeezing Jon's hand. He's still wearing the ring and the hard press of metal against Jon's fingers feels like hope.

"I do too," Jon says, heat rushing to his face, heart thundering in his ears. "I really do." He closes his eyes and pulls Brendon close, kissing him blind and fierce, sighing with relief when Brendon grabs a fistful of his shirt and kisses him back.

:::

"What took you so long?" Ryan says, when they pile into the limo.

"Just forgot something," Jon says.

"Forgot everything actually," Brendon says, shoving Jon over and pulling the door closed behind him.

Ryan rolls his eyes. "We should write a song about this," he says, digging through his messenger bag and pulling out a notebook and pen. 

"Totally," Jon says, sneaking a look at Brendon out of the corner of his eye and smiling when he catches Brendon doing the same.

Spencer's head jerks up. "I play the drums," he says, lifting his hands and staring at them in wonder. 

Brendon reaches over and messes up his hair. "Yeah, you do! You're an awesome drummer."

Spencer gives him a look that plainly says, _tell me something I don't know, you fucking lameass._

"Spencer's back!" Jon says, laughing and holding his hand up.

Spencer smirks and high fives him, then crosses his arms across his chest, leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. "Wake me up when we get there."

It's hard to believe, but Jon's tired too. He slouches down, rests his head on Brendon's familiar shoulder and lets the rhythm of the road and the scratch of Ryan's pen send him to sleep.

End.


End file.
